


Seeds of the Future

by Mithen



Series: Gardens of Wayne Manor [1]
Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Friends, M/M, Pre-Capes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-05
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When young Clark Kent's father dies, his mother is forced to take employment with a wealthy family on the East Coast, starting a friendship that will last for years and deepen into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deep Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [未来的种子](https://archiveofourown.org/works/589957) by [Lynx219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynx219/pseuds/Lynx219)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When tragedy strikes the Kent family, Clark Kent's life turns down a different path.

_December_

Clark was eight years old and it was five days before Christmas when the world changed forever. He was sitting on the living room floor, staring at the presents under the tree, when he heard his mother's voice from the kitchen: "Jonathan, what's the matter?" And then high and panicky like he'd never heard it before: _"Jonathan?"_

There was a thud and a crash, and Clark was running to the kitchen, where his father lay on the floor. His mother had dropped the milk pitcher, and the milk was spreading across the floor; Clark saw it reach his father's hand, but his father didn't move.

There were ambulances cutting through the chill night air, people bending over his father, comforting his mother. Someone wrapped a blanket around him and he realized he was shivering.

They pulled a sheet over his father's face and Clark wanted to cry out that this was _wrong,_ this wasn't _real,_ but his mother put her arms around him and held him tight, and he buried his face against her and shook with sobs.

There was a funeral, and everyone patted Clark's head and everyone said nice things about his father, and Clark sat very straight in the pew, and when he wiped his nose on his sleeve his mother didn't scold him at all, just pulled him closer and handed him a tissue.

And then he woke up the next day and his mother was sitting on his bed, looking down at him. "It's Christmas," she said softly, and Clark blinked at her.

"I'd forgotten," he said, and she touched his hair.

"I know."

"What...what do we do?"

She looked out the window, thinking, then looked back at him. "I guess we open our presents."

She put some Christmas carols on, but they opened their presents quietly, carefully, as if the little wrapped boxes might shatter. Or as if Clark and his mother might. There weren't that many boxes, so it didn't take long. Clark managed a watery smile when he unwrapped the telescope his father had given him. Martha turned a small package over in her fingers a few times before unwrapping it. Into her hands fell a pendant, a shooting star with a glittering tail, and her fingers shook as she closed them over the little bit of jewelry. She raised her hands to her face with a sob. "Jonathan," she choked, "I can't do this alone. I can't!"

Clark sidled close to his mother and put a hand on her shaking shoulder. "You're not alone, Ma," he whispered. "We can do it."

Martha threw her arms around him. "I know," she managed. "I'm so glad I have you, Clark, my son. _My son._ " She said the words fiercely, as if defying someone to contradict her, and hugged Clark tighter.

January was long and dark and cold. One night Clark padded downstairs for a drink of water to find his mother staring at papers scattered across the kitchen table, covered with numbers and marked with red ink. "Are you all right, Ma?"

She didn't answer right away, her eyes fixed on the papers. "We'll be okay, Clark. Just...things are going to have to be different."

"Different how?"

She straightened her shoulders. "We're going to have to move. We can't keep the farm."

"Move? But--" Clark felt his lower lip trembling like a small child's, but he couldn't help it, "--But this is Pa's house, this is--"

"--I know that," Martha interrupted him. Her voice was steady but her eyes were red. "But without him to help, it's impossible. We can't afford to keep the farm going. I'm sorry, Clark."

Clark gulped back tears and bit his lip. "It's okay, Ma. I know it has to be hard."

His mother blinked and then scrubbed at her eyes. "Come here, Clark." She put an arm around him. "We'll be okay. I just need to find different work somewhere, that's all. And it's not the building that matters, it's the family in it. We have each other."

Then there was a long time of clippings from newspapers and phone calls. And then they had to pack everything, all of Clark's belongings put into boxes and suitcases, the house echoing empty and lonely.

The night before they were to board the train to take them away from Smallville, Clark woke at the sound of the back door swinging shut. He looked at the clock: one o'clock. Out the window he could see his mother driving the Carstairs' backhoe out of the barn. There was something on the trailer behind it covered with a tarp. The headlights moved into the dark fields and beyond Clark's range of vision.

Clark lay back down and waited for her, but he must have dozed off, because he woke up with a start to find his mother sitting on the bed next to him, smoothing back his hair. Her face had a streak of dirt on it and she smelled sweaty, but her eyes were bright with some emotion Clark couldn't name. It wasn't quite happiness. Maybe satisfaction.

"I won't lose you too," she murmured as Clark blinked sleepily at her. "You're my son and nothing will change that, nothing will take you away from me. _Nothing."_

She kissed his forehead. "Sleep well, my little star," she whispered, and Clark fell asleep still smiling at hearing his baby nickname again.

: : :

The train ride was long, winding across fields and rolling hills and through roaring tunnels that made Clark's ears pop. The ground became snowier, until there was a thick blanket of white covering everything. Slowly the buildings became closer and closer together, until they were definitely in a city. Clark stared at the stores and houses streaming past, his mouth slightly open: he'd been to Topeka once, but this was so much bigger.

"Here we are," Martha said as the train pulled to a long, screeching stop. She lifted her bag--Clark insisted on carrying his own, although it was almost as big as he was.

On the platform, Clark stared around in amazement at the tall buildings, the sheer number of cars and people making their way through the slush, his head swiveling.

"And this is my son, Clark," he heard his mother saying, and turned to see a man in a long wool coat smiling at him. "Clark, this is Mr. Bell."

"Oh, call me Justin," said the man. He had curly blond hair and a lot of smile lines. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Clark," he said. "Our car is right over here."

Clark and his mother got in the back of the huge black car and the man put their luggage in the trunk. The city slid by the car windows, endlessly fascinating, as Justin spoke to his mother:

"I hope you'll like your bungalow okay, Mrs. Kent. Mr. Barnes, our last head gardener, took real good care of it."

"I'm sure it will be perfect. I've been looking at the garden layouts I was sent, and I'm eager to actually see them."

They were talking more, about gardens and planning, but Clark hardly heard them. They were driving down a long avenue with huge spreading trees overhead, tall hedges lining the road. The car slowed and turned to pass through a massive cast-iron fence that closed slowly behind them.

On the other side of the fence was a long, sloping lawn, currently covered in snow. And at the top of the incline was a huge stone mansion, like something out of a fairy tale. Clark felt his eyes growing round at the sight. His mother would be working for these people from now on? Like...a servant? With a sharp pang, he missed his home, the worn wooden boards beneath his bare feet, the way the third stair to the second floor creaked. Later, much later, he would hear about how Martha Kent's cousin, a former cook here, had begged the family to take on an inexperienced widow from Kansas as their new head gardener. He would realize then that the job had been nearly charity. But at the time he could only feel his chest aching with the desire to go home, home to when his father was alive and his mother smiled more often and everything was normal.

He didn't have a home anymore.

The car moved slowly past the mansion and then behind it, making its way down a snow-choked drive toward a small cottage half-hidden in trees. "There's your place," the driver said.

Clark heard a sudden whoop of laughter and turned his head to see three figures--a man, a woman, and a boy about Clark's age--come running around the corner of the huge stone building. The man and woman were fleeing from the boy, who was throwing snowballs at them. All three faces were bright with laughter. As Clark watched, the man suddenly turned around and seized the boy, swinging him up into the air and tossing him gently into a snowbank as the woman laughingly protested. The boy jumped to his feet again, his dark hair starred with snow, his cheeks flushed, and tackled his father, sending them both tumbling.

"And that's the Waynes," said Justin. "You'll meet them tomorrow, after you've had time to rest." He turned and smiled at Clark. "Master Bruce is nearly the same age as you, Clark."

Clark Kent watched the boy who looked so similar to him playing with his father, playing in front of his home, at ease and laughing.

For a hot, angry moment he hated Bruce Wayne with all his heart.


	2. Deep Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kents meet the Waynes.

Clark came awake slowly to the raucous sound of crows quarreling somewhere nearby. For a sickening moment he couldn't remember where he was--the bed was all wrong, too soft, and the air smelled of pine and some salty tang that was wholly unfamiliar--and then the world clicked back into order as he remembered the train ride, the huge stone house, the laughing boy and his parents in the snow.

He pulled the blankets over his head and tried to go back to sleep, tried to imagine that he would wake up in his own home, with his father pulling on his boots, getting ready to go milk the cows. If he tried hard enough...if he could just perfectly recreate everything in his mind, the scent of coffee, the distant lowing of the cows...

But eventually the sound of his mother moving around the cottage alone made the pretense impossible, and Clark pulled the covers off. Sticking his feet in his slippers, he wove between the stacks of boxes stacked in the hall to the kitchen, where he found his mother poring over a pile of garden maps and photographs. "Morning," she said abstractly as Clark padded in. "Give me a second and I'll make you some cereal."

The kitchen was dark and gloomy; Clark looked out the window but the house was closed around with evergreen trees and he couldn't see the sky. He felt a stab of something like claustrophobia. "Is it going to snow?" he asked, opening the refrigerator and getting out the milk.

Martha glanced at the window and frowned. "Maybe." She stood up and rummaged in the boxes until she turned up two bowls and two spoons and poured out some cereal and milk. "We'll be going up to the main house after breakfast. Mrs. Wayne would like to talk to me about her plans for the spring. She invited you to come along as well."

Clark shoved at his Cheerios with his spoon, pushing them under the milk. "I don't want to."

Across the table from him, Martha bit her lip. "You don't have to. But Clark--I don't want you sulking." Clark looked up from his cereal and she went on quickly, "Mrs. Wayne wants you to meet her son, Bruce. And you'll be happier if you start settling in."

"I don't want to," Clark whispered, looking back down. "I miss Pete. And Lana. And this house is so tiny. It doesn't even have two floors. I don't like it." He was trying to sound angry, but his lower lip was trembling like a baby's and he hated himself for it.

"Honey," Martha breathed. "Oh, my poor little star." She reached out and rumpled his hair and Clark bit his lip hard. "I know. I've dragged you all the way out here and you have to start a new school tomorrow. It won't be easy. I know." She propped her chin in her hand, looking at him for a long moment. "I'm really nervous about meeting the Waynes today," she said eventually.

"You are?"

A small smile. "Of course I am. I'm going to be working for them, living on their land--what if they're impossible to deal with? What if I say something stupid and they decide I'm no good for the job, just a hick from Kansas?"

"You're not a hick!" Clark felt righteous anger swell his chest. "They better not say that!"

Martha laughed. "I'm sure they won't. I'm just nervous. I've been studying the garden plans all morning, hoping I'm prepared enough. I really hope I don't make any stupid mistakes," she added in a murmur, looking down at the papers.

Clark felt a pang at the thought of his mother walking into that huge, cold house alone. "I'll go with you," he suggested. "To help."

Martha's smile was brilliant. "That's my good boy," she said, her eyes bright.

: : :

Snowflakes were starting to fall by the time they set out for the main house, big fat flakes that floated as if in slow motion. A tall man with a very straight back met them at the side door. "Good morning, Mrs. Kent. And young Master Clark," he said, helping Martha out of her coat. "I am Alfred Pennyworth. I'm in charge of the household."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Pennyworth," said Martha. She smoothed down her sky-blue dress, her fingers nervous, as Clark looked around the kitchen at the deep green marble countertops streaked with golden veins, the dark wood cabinets with gleaming brass handles, the copper pots hanging from the ceiling.

"It's shaping up to be something of a storm," Mr. Pennyworth said, stepping toward the door. "I'll have Antonia bring in some tea to you and Mrs. Wayne presently. And perhaps some hot chocolate for the young sir?" He raised an inquiring eyebrow at Clark and Clark nodded, feeling suddenly shy. "Right this way, then. Mrs. Wayne is awaiting you in the sitting room."

The went down a corridor paneled in dark wood. Mr. Pennyworth swung open the next door--and Clark stepped forward into a fairy tale castle.

That was the only description he could manage as his eyes darted around the room in amazement. The walls were of pale blue plaster molded into wreaths, vines, and other ornaments; little angel's faces peeped at Clark from around the windows. The furniture was all covered in golden brocade that shone in the dim, snow-smothered light from the huge windows. The floors were of little wood strips laid out in an elaborate pattern that almost made Clark feel dizzy, looking at it. He looked up, away from them, and realized the ceiling was painted like a blue sky with clouds. He was still staring up at it when he heard a quiet voice:

"Do have a seat, Mrs. Kent. And this must be Clark."

He pulled his gaze down and realized there was a woman in the room; he had been so startled by the room itself he had hardly noticed her.

Martha Wayne was wearing a pale yellow dress, her waving chestnut-brown hair framing a heart-shaped face with a surprisingly strong jaw. There was a severe, formal simplicity to her outfit that jarred with the magnificence of her setting, and the smile that curved her mouth at Clark's awed expression had the ghost of a wry, self-deprecating edge to it that he liked immediately without knowing why.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am," said Clark's mother. Her voice was subdued, respectful, and Clark looked at her, startled; he had never heard his mother speak that way before. He looked back at Martha Wayne in time to surprise a fleeting rueful look on her face, gone before it was truly there.

"Please," Mrs. Wayne said, "Please sit down and let's go over some plans." She unrolled a large piece of paper on the gilt-edged table. "I'm quite thrilled to have you here." She laughed at Martha Kent's expression, a small delighted gurgle of laughter that made her look years younger for a moment. "Oh yes, truly! Heaven forbid I say a word against dear Mr. Barnes--he was the Wayne family gardener since my husband was a boy--but his preferred style of garden ran the range from 'ornate' to 'ludicrous.' I would dearly love to adapt the northern garden to something a little less formal, and a fresh perspective is just what we need here."

Martha Kent leaned over the drawings. "A moon garden? That would take a lot of work."

"Years, probably," her employer said cheerfully. "I'm sure it won't even get out of the planning stages until next spring. It will be a big commitment, but I think the results will be worth it. Shall we get to work?"

Martha was looking at the garden plans. The expression on her face was one Clark knew well: she had been given a challenge. "These beds of lilies," she said, pointing, "I think they'd be better as lilac bushes, making a pathway toward the center."

Mrs. Wayne started to answer, but stopped suddenly and turned toward the door. "There you are, Bruce," she said. "Come in and meet the Kents."

Clark hadn't heard anything, and so he was startled to find the boy from the day before standing in the door. He was wearing a dark turtleneck and his hair was falling in his eyes; he brushed it back and Clark find himself looking into eyes the color of a winter sky before a storm, the irises a pale blue, shot through with a color close to silver. For a moment he found himself thinking of faeries and elves from the books his father used to read him.

"This is my son, Bruce," said Martha Wayne. "Bruce, this is Martha Kent, and her son, Clark. I think you two are almost the same age, aren't you?"

"Clark just turned eight in December."

"Why, Bruce turns eight in just a couple of weeks! How nice."

The two boys were eyeing each other warily. Bruce glanced over at his mother, then back to Clark. "My mother told me about your father," he said. "I'm sorry. It must be terrible."

They were rote words, the same ones everyone else said, but the boy said them as though he had really thought about how terrible it must be. Clark blinked and felt his throat close up, any traces of resentment banished by the pained look in those uncanny eyes. "Thanks," he managed.

Bruce ducked his head as if slightly startled, his dark hair falling into his eyes again. "Do you like comic books?"

"Sure," Clark said, seizing eagerly on the change of subject. "Buck Rogers, Lone Ranger, Zorro--" At the last name Bruce smiled again, this time a look of pure delight, "--Green Hornet, Gray Ghost--"

"You like Gray Ghost?" The question was freighted with significance, but Clark didn't have to hesitate.

"Heck yeah! Doesn't everyone?"

A shadow crossed Bruce's face. "My friend Tommy used to make fun of me for reading him. He thought Gray Ghost was stupid."

Indignation fired Clark's spine and he bounced on his toes. "What? That's--that's--Gray Ghost is the awesomest!" He launched into the introduction to the television show almost involuntarily: "Those with evil hearts beware..." and Bruce chimed in at "...for out of the darkness comes...the Gray Ghost!"

Bruce's eyes sparked and he reached out and grabbed Clark's arm. Behind him, Clark could see Bruce's mother raise an eyebrow; later he would realize how rare it was that Bruce touched anyone but his parents. "I've got the Gray Ghost annual upstairs. It came yesterday."

"The annual--!" In all of the chaos of moving, Clark had forgotten that it was due out this week. "Can I...can I borrow it?"

"You can read it right now, come on!" Bruce tugged on his arm and Clark followed him eagerly.

"I think they're going to get along okay," he heard his mother say laughingly as Bruce pulled him out the door.

The sitting room door opened onto a hall bigger than Clark's new house, full of marble pillars and red carpets, but Bruce didn't give him time to gape, leading him upstairs to a room that was still opulent but clearly lived-in. "Here," he said, handing Clark a deliciously thick comic book. On the cover was a picture of Gray Ghost with a raygun and a jetpack, floating against stars. "It's a what-if story," he said at Clark's frown. "What if Gray Ghost got frozen instead of Buck Rogers and found himself in the twenty-fifth century?"

"That's silly," said Clark. "Gray Ghost doesn't need a raygun. He fights the wicked with the power of his keen perception and sharp senses."

"I know, I know," said Bruce. "But you'll like it, it's cool. Read it!"

Clark liked it, though he and Bruce disagreed about whether Wilma Deering would have fallen for the Gray Ghost in place of Buck: Clark insisted Wilma was meant for Buck, but Bruce stubbornly maintained the Gray Ghost could win over even the loyal heart of Wilma. "But that's all girl stuff," Bruce finally announced with a tone of finality. "Who needs them, anyway?"

Clark held aloft his mug of hot chocolate, brought in by Alfred in mid-read. "Here's to boys," he said, mimicking the toast Killer Kane had just used in the book ("Here's to villainy").

"To boys!" They clinked mugs.

By the time they finished with Bruce's stack of comic books, the snow was piling up outside the windows. Bruce set aside the final book, drained the last of his hot chocolate, and sighed happily. "Maybe we won't have school tomorrow," he said, looking out the window. "Do you think you'll be in my class?"

Clark sat bolt upright from the carpet at the thought of having someone at school he knew. "You go to Gotham Elementary?"

Disappointment clouded Bruce's face, crushing Clark's hopes even before he spoke. "I go to Brentwood. I guess we won't be seeing each other at school."

"Oh." The dread that Clark had been feeling about the new school year returned in full force, and he looked down at his _Flash Gordon_ comic, wishing he could be off on Mongo, fighting Ming the Merciless. It would be simpler.

"But hey," Bruce said, dropping onto the floor again next to him. "We can see each other every day _after_ school, right?" His silver-blue eyes met Clark's, a small smile on his face.

"Yeah." Despite his worry, Clark found himself smiling back. "That's good."

"You seemed to get along well with Bruce," his mother said later as they shook out their clothing, caked with snow from the trudge back to the cottage. "I'm glad you gave him a chance."

It took Clark a minute to remember his resentment toward the other boy from the day before, melted and gone like the snow from his boots. "He's cool," he said, not wanting to admit to his mother that he was looking forward to tomorrow. Bruce had asked him over to watch the new episode of the _Gray Ghost_ television show, "The Claw." No matter how bad school was, he could still look forward to that.

His mother smiled at him as she unrolled another garden plan to examine. "I'm glad you've made a friend."

A friend. Clark blinked, then smiled. "I guess I have."

**: : :**

Martha Wayne paused in the doorway of her son's room. Bruce was staring out the window at the falling snow. "Time for bed, dear," she said, and he slowly crawled under the covers. Martha sat down on the bed and smoothed back his hair. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Bruce abstractedly.

Martha waited.

"Father isn't home yet."

"He will be soon."

Bruce's fingers picked at the counterpane, and he stared down at the cloth. "Tommy's father died," he said, his voice low. "And Clark's did, too." His eyes went to the window again. "What would we do if Father died?"

Martha reached out and took his cold hands in hers. "He'll be home soon, dear."

"Would we have to leave our house and go away, like Clark?"

"No. We'd be able to stay here as long as we liked."

Bruce bit his lip. "We'd be so sad."

"Of course we would." Martha squeezed his hands. "But we'd keep going, Bruce. And we'd still have each other."

A shaky smile. "I know," he whispered.

Lights cut across the window, and Martha smiled merrily. "And see, there's your father, home safe and sound."

Bruce's answering smile was relieved. "Can I go downstairs and give him a hug before I go to sleep?"

"Of course." Martha followed behind her son as he scampered down the stairs and threw himself into his father's snowy arms, glad that Thomas had come home before Bruce fell asleep. Sometimes Bruce got fretting about things--deep things, things most children didn't worry about--and then he'd have nightmares.

But not tonight, Martha thought as Thomas laughed and swung Bruce into a hug.

Not tonight.


	3. Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Friends playing outdoors on a rainy spring Saturday has unforeseen results.

_April_

The drum of rain was a steady roaring beat on the roof of the Kent's little cottage. Clark looked glumly out the window. "Why's it got to rain on _Saturday_?" he whined.

His mother looked up from an assortment of seed packets. "You and Bruce can play inside."

"But we were going to work on our treehouse," Clark sighed. "Alfred was going to help. We can't do it in the rain."

The doorbell rang and Martha got up to get it, smiling a little wistfully at the way Clark bounced out of his chair. She couldn't help wishing Clark would make more friends at school, but he and Bruce were inseparable.

Bruce Wayne looked up from the doorstep at her, his owlish eyes blinking at her from under a bright yellow rain slicker. "Can Clark come out and play?"

Clark was already throwing on his own raincoat. "We can't work on the--"

"--I know, but we can race boats on the creek, it's high right now, it's really cool!"

Martha caught at Clark's shoulder as he started to run past her, a toy boat in hand. "You're not going anywhere without your rubbers, young man."

"Aw, _Ma_ ," he complained, but dutifully pulled them on.

"Stay dry!" she yelled after them as they sloshed away into the curtains of rain, and he waved back at her cheerfully.

**: : :**

Clark and Bruce ran through the pine barrens that stretched across the northern edge of the Wayne property, sodden pine needles slipping under their feet. They stopped to inspect the future site of their tree house, a broad-limbed beech just starting to put forth its new spring leaves, pale green and tender. Then on to the creek, swollen with spring rain. They set their boats afloat in the deep pool just below a fall of water and followed them down the stream, whooping and shrieking as they traded the lead. Bruce's _Nautilus_ beat the _Dawn Treader_ by mere moments, and Clark snatched his boat out of the water before it started its final cascade toward the sea, frowning at Bruce's good-natured jeers.

"I'll beat you next time!" he declared and started to run back along the bank to the starting point, Bruce pelting after. About halfway there, he felt his foot sink into the earth, then a sudden tug and cold mud squelched between his toes. He looked back in chagrin to where his sneaker had come off--rubber and all--then down at his bare foot.

Bruce caught up with him, out of breath and laughing at his discomfiture. "Your mother's going to be cheesed," he crowed between whooping breaths. Clark took the opportunity to kick mud at him with his bare foot, wriggling his toes in the muck luxuriously. "Oh, that's _it_ ," Bruce announced, stripping off his own shoes to wallow barefoot in the the wet earth, stamping and splashing.

After that it seemed only natural to take off the hindering rain coats as well--they were already hopelessly soaked, after all--and just tromped around in the mud pretending to be the Venusian swamp monsters Buck Rogers had fought in his last comic book. Rain pelted around them as they bellowed and waved their arms, and when Clark's footing gave way and he landed on his butt in the mud Bruce laughed so hard he fell down too.

**: : :**

The sun was shining bright the next day, the whole world outside Bruce's window washed clean and sparkling, waiting for new adventures. He bounded down the staircase and almost collided with Alfred. "Can we start the treehouse today, Alfred?"

Alfred looked at him narrowly. "Mrs. Kent called a little while ago. I'm afraid Master Clark has come down with a bad cold and a fever, probably due to yesterday's muddy shenanigans."

Bruce felt all the joy of the day go out of him under Alfred's disapproving look. "Oh, gee," he muttered. He scuffed at the carpet with his foot, feeling small and grubby. "I didn't think he'd get sick."

"Obviously not," Alfred said with some asperity. "You don't seem to have been _thinking_ much at all. Honestly, Master Bruce, why couldn't you just play indoors? Is the entire Manor not large enough for your roughhousing?"

"I don't know," Bruce said, looking down. "It's just..." He couldn't put it into words for Alfred, or even for himself, but the Manor--which was always just _home_ to him, and nothing special or remarkable at all--always seemed different when Clark was there: grandiose and ornate, almost forbidding. He didn't like how Clark's eyes always got big as they went through the grand hall on the way to his room, the way he was always so careful not to scuff the floors. Outside--outside it was different. They were both _comfortable_ there, shinnying up trees and digging in mud. "Can I go see him?" he asked, giving up the effort to explain.

"If you're careful not to wear him out, I see no reason why not."

Bruce ran to tell his mother where he was going. She put down her pen to give him a big hug and kiss the top of his head before he was out the door and on the familiar path down to the Kent's cottage.

He knocked on the green door and Clark's mother opened it, looking harried. "Oh, Bruce," she said abstractedly, waving him inside. Relieved that it seemed he wasn't going to be scolded by Mrs. Kent--Alfred was more than enough disapproval for the day, thank you--Bruce slipped inside.

"Clark's asleep," Mrs. Kent informed him. "But you can stay here and read some comics or something until he wakes up." She looked out the window at the brilliant sun, frowning. "Oh dear, this is the first day warm enough to plant the annuals, too." She bit her lip.

"I can keep an eye on him," Bruce said, feeling a pang of conscience. "I took care of my mother when she had the flu."

"And I'm sure you'd be very responsible," Mrs. Kent said with a smile, "But I really can't leave him..."

"I promise I'll run and get you if there's any problem at all!" Bruce insisted. "You'll be just outside in the greenhouse or in the gardens, right?"

Martha Kent looked at Bruce's anxious face and relented. "I'll be in the _parterre_ garden, I'll be back in a couple of hours to check on you," she said, ruffling his hair.

Bruce stood in the doorway of Clark's bedroom, looking at his friend sleeping. Clark's cheeks were flushed and his hair was sticking damply to his forehead, his arms flung out across the width of the bed. He was breathing deeply, with a slight whistle to the exhalations that made Bruce smile in spite of himself. Quietly, he slipped to the chair, picked up a dog-eared copy of _The Dark is Rising,_ and began to re-read it.

He had just reached the first recitation of the verse that always made him catch his breath in wonder-- _When the Dark comes rising, six shall turn it back_ \--when Clark stirred and muttered something indistinct under his breath. Bruce could see his eyes moving beneath his eyelids as a frown creased his sleeping face. The mutter turned into something closer to a whimper, and Clark screwed his eyes tighter shut as if trying not to see something. "No," Bruce heard him say thickly, "No, please--I'm not--I'm _not_ \--"

The tinge of hysteria in Clark's voice prompted Bruce to reach out and grab his friend by one clammy arm, saying "Hey."

Clark twitched violently and his eyes sprang open; he gasped and sat bolt upright, looking through Bruce, unseeing.

"It's okay," said Bruce. "It was just a nightmare. You're okay. I'm right here." His heart was pounding but he tried to look calm. Should he run and get Mrs. Kent?

Clark stared at him, then exhaled slowly, his eyes focusing on Bruce, coming back to the real world. "It was..." his voice shook slightly and he swallowed, tried again: "It was that nightmare again."

"What nightmare?"

"I have it, now and then. Always the same nightmare." Clark looked down at his hands on the cover. "The person is different--this time it was my father, and I'm so happy to see him again, I go running to him, but then, it happens. Like it always does. My face...my face _peels away_ , I can feel the skin peeling off like a mask, and underneath...underneath..." He shuddered all over and went quiet.

Bruce could feel Clark's fear in the air between them like something he could almost touch. "What?" he whispered.

"I'm...not human underneath. Some kind of monster. Not human."

Bruce grinned with an effort. "Like a Venusian swamp monster? Those are the worst."

Clark's smile was wan. "Worse than that." He shook his head. "I don't know. I can't describe it."

"Well, you're awake now," Bruce said briskly, unwilling to dwell on the shadow behind Clark's blue eyes. "I told your mother I'd take care of you while she was working, so can I get you anything?" He aimed for the crisp, efficient tone Alfred always had when he was sick, and was rewarded with a more genuine smile from his friend.

Bruce spent the rest of the morning playing nurse. He got a glass of ginger ale for Clark and some of his favorite comics to read, and when Clark looked too flushed he insisted on taking Clark's temperature, despite the angry glare Clark gave him around the thermometer. "A hundred degrees," he announced, peering at the mercury. "Hold on and I'll get you a cool cloth for your head."

"You're just enjoying treating me like a baby and making me look ridiculous," Clark grumbled as Bruce returned from the bathroom with a damp washcloth.

"Don't be silly," Bruce said in his best imitation of Alfred, clapping the cloth to Clark's forehead. "Lie down and rest."

And it _wasn't_ that, he thought as Clark subsided into drowsy annoyance. It wasn't that at all. He liked the sense of responsibility, like a warm glow in his chest, when he knew he was helping Mrs. Kent and taking care of Clark. He liked knowing he was doing a good job.

"Glad you're here," Clark muttered, half-asleep.

Bruce watched over him until Mrs. Kent came in to make them both tomato soup and compliment Bruce for being such a good friend.


	4. Best Friends Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Summer vacation brings quality treehouse time.  Ominous whispers in the dark can be ignored...for now.

_June_

Clark ran up the long, curving driveway, his backpack thumping against his shoulder blades. Bruce would be home already, waiting for him in the Fortress. The shadows of the larches stretched long across the paving in the late-afternoon sun.

It was the last day of school and Clark and Bruce were free for the summer.

He dropped his backpack on the ground beneath the spreading beech with a _thump_. "Bruce! Let down the ladder!"

A voice drifted down from the house tucked snugly into the crook of the tree: "Speak the password, or thou shalt not enter!"

Clark cleared his throat. "Clark, Earl of Kent, requests passage in the name of gallantry, chivalry, and all fair virtues!"

A dark head appeared in the window and Bruce, Duc du Wayne, flashed him a smile. "Enter the Secret Fortress, fellow knight."

The rope ladder tumbled down to the grass at Clark's feet and he scrambled up to the secret headquarters of the League of Valor.

**: : :**

Clark finished up another sandwich and tossed the crusts out the window for the birds, feeling a tingle of pleasant rebellion--at home he would have eaten the crusts, of course. Bruce lifted his head from his battered copy of _Robin Hood_ \--Clark preferred King Arthur, but it was fun to play at being bandits, too--and said, "My parents say we can camp out here if your mother says okay."

"Like, sleep out here all night?"

"Sure, I've got a couple of sleeping bags we can lug up. We can bring flashlights and read comics all night. It'll be fun!"

Clark scrambled to his feet. "I'll go check with Ma right now!"

He was back fifteen minutes later, grinning as he met Bruce's eyes. "She says it's fine!" Actually, Martha Kent had been quite reluctant to give permission, although she had been unable to give any specific reason why. In the face of Clark's enthusiasm, she had finally sighed and nodded. Clark had thrown his arms around her in a hug and she had laughed, a sound with a sad undertone to it.

Mr. Pennyworth brought out sleeping bags and flashlights for the boys and soon they were safely entrenched in the Secret Fortress, reading comics and sharing the coolest parts. Moonlight slanted in through the window and Clark looked out to see it rising slowly in the east, a faint sparkle of light visible in the distance, glancing off waves.

"Let's go down to the ocean," Bruce said, and Clark turned to see his friend beside him, gazing out across the field that sloped down to the sea.

"In the dark?"

"We've got flashlights." Bruce grabbed his and headed for the ladder. "What, are you scared of the dark?" he asked with a quick smile, and of course Clark had no choice but to go with him then.

**: : :**

The moonlight was so bright they didn't even need the flashlights as they made their way through the field. Bruce watched the long grass quiver in the faint wind, silver-tipped by the moon, ripples chasing each other across the expanse. Clark sighed beside him, and Bruce turned to catch a sad expression flickering across his friend's face.

"The grass always reminds me of cornfields back home," Clark said softly.

Bruce felt oddly nettled, as he always did when Clark called anywhere but right here "home." Someday, he promised himself, when he was grown up, he'd buy Clark's old house back, and give it to him as a present. He imagined for a moment Clark's grateful face, the way he'd smile when he realized what Bruce had done for him. _"You've given me my home back, Bruce,"_ the Clark in his mind said. _"But no...now I understand that this isn't my real home. My real home is--"_

"Hey, slowpoke!" Clark's voice was a bit further down the path now, his shape almost lost in the dark, and Bruce hurried after him.

The field gave way to rocks, purple-blue in the darkness, jagged angles tumbling down to the constant rustle of the water. The tide was low, and the two boys explored silvered tidal pools, tiny argent fish darting into crannies, hermit crabs curling inward at their touch. Rubbery seaweed popped and slipped under their feet, and the only sound was the hypnotic rumble of rising and falling waves.

"Hey, look." Clark pointed, and Bruce saw a dark gap he had never noticed before in the cliff face above the water line, partially obscured by driftwood. "Let's check it out."

Now it was Bruce's turn to feel somewhat reluctant as Clark, buoyed by the excitement of exploration, scrambled up the rocks toward it. "There's lots of caves underneath the Manor. If it connected to them, we could get totally lost."

"Aw, we won't go far. I promise." Clark's smile was the brightest thing in the moonlit world. "What, are you scared?"

Clark turned on his flashlight as they cleared away the brush and driftwood, then wriggled through the gap into the darkness beyond. Bruce hesitated just a moment, then followed.

The cave beyond was narrow for a little way, then after a downward slope opened up into a room that an adult could stand up inside. It was surprisingly dry, filled with the scent of salt and sand. "This is so cool," Clark whispered, and his voice echoed around the space, looping around itself. "This is _really_ secret. I bet no one knows about this but us."

The very back of the cave had an opening that led even deeper, but it was too narrow for even the determined Clark to fit through. They could hear strange echoes from the depths beyond, faint rustlings from very far away. "Darn," said Clark, and Bruce echoed him, hiding his relief. Clark sat down on a rock, looking around the walls, and Bruce sat down next to him, feeling the chilly stone beneath him.

They sat in silence for a while, and then Clark nudged Bruce in the ribs, almost making him jump. "Let's turn off our flashlights," he said.

Bruce swallowed, but couldn't come up with a reason not to that didn't involve looking frightened. "Okay."

"On the count of three, we'll turn them off together," whispered Clark. "One...two...three!"

Both lights went out and the cave was plunged into blackness.

Bruce heard Clark's inhalation as the darkness engulfed them, pressing against Bruce's eyes until he wasn't sure if they were open or closed. Inky and complete, it closed around them both like wings, smothering... Bruce blinked and slowly managed to make out the faint glimmer of the cave exit, less a light source than a slightly less utterly black spot. The way out was right there, he told himself, it was right there. But it still felt like the darkness was hovering nearby, ready to swallow him whole. The faint and faraway rustling--waves? Rats? Zombies? _Zombie rats?_ \--ran up and down Bruce's spine like cold ice. He shifted slightly and felt Clark's side against his, felt Clark breathing, warm and solid, and some of the unnamable terror ebbed away. Clark was right there, he reminded himself. He wasn't alone.

"Will we be friends forever?" he blurted out, his voice echoing thin and strange in the darkness.

"Sure," Clark said simply.

" _Best_ friends? Because I've never really had a _best_ friend. Tommy, kind of, but he never...we were never...friends like we are." In the blackness, the words felt disembodied, divorced from himself; it was strangely reassuring, somehow. "I want to be friends with you forever."

Clark chuckled and put one arm around Bruce's shoulders, pulling him close. "Can you think of anything that could split up the League of Valor?" There was a brief silence and his hand tightened on Bruce's shoulder. "Nothing," he said, his voice turned serious. "We'll always be friends."

Later in his life, Bruce would remember that moment. _You can't even imagine_ , he would want to tell that younger version of himself, _The things that can happen to a friendship._

But that night, in that moment, Bruce Wayne knew that he and Clark would be best friends forever.


	5. Spiderweb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The summer's first big party at Wayne Manor and the gardens have to be in perfect order. 

_June_

Clark Kent ran across the dewy grass toward the Manor, the morning sun glinting off the damp blades. In his arms was a mass of fresh roses, sent by his mother to be given to Martha Wayne.

"Oh, thank you, Clark," Mrs. Wayne said distractedly, taking the lush armful from him. "Oh, they're beautiful." She put her face into the petals for a moment and breathed in deeply. "Tell your mother thank you."

Clark looked around the great hall, filled at the moment with caterers and decorators, Mr. Pennyworth directing all the action. "I'll tell her, ma'am." Privately he wasn't sure his mother would hear him. She'd been working feverishly for days in preparation for her first big party at the Manor, and was even now pruning and re-staking shrubs in the garden.

Mrs. Wayne was arranging the roses in a porcelain vase, serene in the midst of chaos. Clark looked around almost reflexively for Bruce, but he knew his friend wasn't there: he'd spent the night at the Elliott's. Bruce had been enthusiastic about seeing his friend Tommy again after so many months--so enthusiastic, in fact, that Clark could tell Bruce was trying to talk himself into feeling happy about it. Somehow Clark couldn't feel envious of Tommy when he realized that.

But he still missed Bruce.

"Mrs. Elliott will be bringing Bruce back when she comes for the luncheon, dear," Mrs. Wayne said as if she could read Clark's thoughts. "And the guests should be gone in time for you two to watch _Gray Ghost_ tonight." She smiled at him over one scarlet rose. "It wouldn't do to miss it."

Clark felt himself reddening slightly, but a crash and a shriek from Antonia in the kitchen drew Mrs. Wayne's attention away, and he ran back out into the gardens.

"Mrs. Wayne says thank you," he gasped to his mother, who looked up with a somewhat harried expression. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek and her hair was tied back in a kerchief.

"Lovely, dear. Could you go tell Rafael to give the fountain in the north garden a last scrubbing?"

Clark cast her his best League of Valor salute and ran off, warmed by her smile.

The roses were pruned, the fountain scrubbed, and fresh bouquets placed in the sitting room, music room, and grand hall before the first guests started to arrive. Clark found his mother sitting in the kitchen of their cottage sipping a cup of coffee and staring out at the dark yews fencing in their house. Her eyes were tired, but she smiled at him as he came in. "Well, Clark, we did the best we could."

Clark pulled up a chair. There was a pencil on the kitchen table and he rolled it back and forth, staring at it. "Are you worried?"

Martha took a long sip of coffee, frowning. "It's the Waynes' first big party, and people will notice if the gardens don't look perfect. I'm not exactly one of the elite gardeners of Gotham."

"Of course the gardens are perfect!" Clark scowled at the implication anyone could find fault with them.

"Mmm." Martha sounded less certain. "I think the pansies in the south garden are a risk. They might be considered too garish. But Mrs. Wayne did say she wanted to get away from the more sedate English garden..."

"I wonder if Bruce is back yet?" Clark hopped from his chair and headed toward the door.

"Clark." He turned at his mother's voice. "You can't go running around the grounds right now."

"I just want to find--"

"--While there's a social function going on, we stay out of the way as much as possible. It's not our place."

"Bruce is my friend."

Her mouth quirked a little; not a smile. "He is. He is also the son of your mother's employers. And during a Wayne social function, that's more important."

Clark looked away for a moment; when he looked back his smile was cheerful and guileless. "Okay, I'll go to the Fortress, then."

Martha hesitated. "That should be okay," she said eventually.

Clark did go to the Fortress; he even took the time to climb up into it for a moment so that he wouldn't possibly be lying.

Then he clambered back down and ran toward the Manor.

**: : :**

He knew the grounds well enough to know how to stay unseen; he and Bruce had played hide and seek in the gardens more than enough times. Through a gap in the hedge that fenced off the north garden, he slipped along the flower-lined paths without any of the scattered strollers in their fancy dresses noticing him. He was almost to the Manor when he heard Martha Wayne's voice coming along the path toward him. Looking around wildly, he ended up hiding behind a honeysuckle bush that was giving shade to a bench.

"Winifred, you look tired," Martha Wayne's low voice was solicitous. "Why don't you sit down and rest your feet?"

"I think I shall, Martha." The other woman's voice was more high-pitched, with a grating whine underneath it. "You know, I don't think I shall ever fully recover from that terrible day."

Two women came around the corner--Mrs. Wayne and a woman with orange-red hair tied back in a severe bun. They settled on the bench and Clark crouched lower behind the bush, feeling like an animal at bay.

"I know, dear. I do hope having Bruce over wasn't too much of a drain."

A short laugh. "I hardly saw him and Tommy at all. I suppose Tommy has better things to do than spend time with his old crippled mother." A long, self-pitying sigh, while Martha Wayne murmured reassuringly. "I must say, Martha, you must be feeling the loss of Mr. Barnes keenly," Mrs. Elliott went on. "I mean, look at this."

"Whatever do you mean, Winifred?"

"Zinnias? Don't you think they're a bit gaudy? I mean, maybe they suit the front of a country cottage, but not one of the finest estates in Gotham."

Clark bit his lip hard and felt his heart hammering. He was just about to surge to his feet when Martha Wayne laughed, a low lilting sound. "My dear, I chose the zinnias myself, so perhaps I should be the one exiled to a 'country cottage.'"

"I didn't mean-- That is--"

Martha cut into Winifred Elliott's flustered disclaimers, her voice amused. "Martha Kent is a godsend for Wayne Manor, Winifred. She's brought new life to these gardens, and I love them. You may feel free to report that to the Gotham City Garden Club at their next meeting."

"Well! Certainly!" Mrs. Elliott stammered.

"Do you know what we're going to do with this garden next year?" Martha Wayne's voice was dreamy. "We're going to make it over as a moon garden."

"A--a what?"

"A moon garden. All white flowers and pale foliage, so it will shine cool and silver in the moonlight, like a fairy garden."

"I never heard of such a thing!"

"Vita Sackville-West had one."

"Well, I have never heard of this Sackville-West woman, but I doubt she's one of Gotham's elite."

There was a wry tilt to Martha Wayne's voice. "No, I suppose she's not."

From behind the honeysuckle flowers, Clark saw Mrs. Elliott shake her head. "Well, it's hardly orthodox, Martha."

" _Orthodox! Proper! Appropriate!_ Oh, you have no idea how tired of those words I can become!" Martha Wayne stood up suddenly, her back stiff. Then she sighed and turned to look at Mrs. Elliott, a small, wistful smile on her face. "Allow me my tiny inappropriate dream, Winifred."

As the other woman pulled herself painfully to her feet to join her, Martha Wayne's gaze traveled past her to where Clark was crouched behind the bush. He crouched lower, trying to make himself small--but her eyes widened as they met his.

For a long moment they looked at each other. Then Mrs. Wayne's smile deepened enough to reveal a dimple in her right cheek. Over Mrs. Elliott's shoulder, she winked at the grubby boy hiding in the shadows.

Then she was taking her friend's arm and helping her walk back toward the house, and Clark was collapsing in a long sigh of relief onto the wood-chip-covered ground.

He eased himself around the bush and made his way cautiously along the path, choosing a different direction than the two women. As he came around the last corner he saw a young boy with a shock of bright red hair crouched in front of a patch of flowers, peering into it. One hand was tightly closed; as Clark drew a little closer, the boy opened it slightly, bringing it closer to his face. A silvery moth emerged from his hand, crawling over his fingers. "Aren't you pretty," murmured the boy.

Then with a swift motion he cast the moth into the spiderweb in front of him.

The web shook as the spider rushed out to wrap the hapless moth in white strands. Clark felt rooted with horror; he must have made a sound because the boy turned and saw him. He smiled, a friendly smile that somehow chilled Clark's marrow. "Isn't it interesting? Want to give it a try?" His eyes were flat green chips, devoid of any malice, filled with nothing but curiosity. And yet Clark found himself backing away slowly. The moth wasn't struggling anymore.

He turned and ran back to the cottage.

**: : :**

Bruce looked anxiously at the clock. It was only thirty minutes until _Gray Ghost_ began, and Mrs. Elliott was still talking with his mother. Tommy Elliott was curled up on the library sofa reading one of Bruce's father's medical textbooks. Bruce realized he'd re-read the same paragraph of _Rocket Ship Galileo_ about five times without the words sinking in at all.

Mrs. Elliott finally began to move toward the door. "Come along, Tommy," she said to the boy on the couch. Then a speculative look crossed her face. "Or...you could stay the night here, if you liked. Would that be all right, Martha?" she said belatedly, turning to her friend.

"Oh...certainly!" Martha smiled; only Bruce could have seen the fleeting discomfort in her eyes. "You know Tommy is always welcome here." She turned to Bruce. "And you two can watch your show with Clark when he comes over."

Tommy put down his anatomy textbook; there was a brief glimpse of diagrams of human bodies, their illustrated skin flayed from their muscles. "Clark. Is that the boy with the floppy hair? Are you two still watching _Gray Ghost_?"

The mockery in his smile was so faint that the adults would miss it, but Bruce did not. He bit his lip. "It's fun," he said, surprised to hear how steady his voice sounded, how certain. Almost angry. And he _was_ angry, he realized only after he heard his own voice. Because the Gray Ghost _was_ fun, and he didn't like Tommy making fun of it. Or of him and Clark.

Mrs. Elliott was still watching her son. "Would you like to stay, Tommy?" she asked, ignoring his comment to Bruce.

Tommy's eyes had narrowed at Bruce's words. He slid off the couch, still studying Bruce's face, his expression the curious and abstracted one he got when studying things under a microscope. "No, I think I'll be going home. I have to prepare for the chess tournament tomorrow, and I shouldn't be wasting time," he said. He smiled politely at Bruce's mother. "Thank you for having me, Mrs. Wayne." He turned at the door. "Enjoy your little fantasy program, Bruce," he said.

Only when the Elliotts were gone did Bruce release a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He wasn't sure why he was so relieved, and he hoped his mother didn't notice. She didn't seem to as she bustled around, tidying up.

Fortunately, adults often didn't seem to notice things like that, things that Bruce couldn't help but notice: significant looks, hesitations, slips of the tongue. Adults seemed to be better at shutting them out and getting by without having to think about every little thing going on around them.

Maybe it would be easier for him when he was an adult too.

There was a gentle throat-clearing at the door and Bruce looked up to see Alfred there. "Master Bruce, Master Clark is at the back door. He--"

Bruce was pelting down the hall before the sentence was done.

**: : :**

"I don't _care_ if zeppelins don't work that way, the battle was _awesome_!"

Bruce suppressed a grin as he and Clark quietly climbed the stairs to the attic floor and the old servants' wing. Other than Alfred and the Kents, none of the staff actually lived on the Manor grounds anymore, which meant the very top floor of the building was abandoned. He and Clark liked to sneak up here sometimes, to explore the maze of tiny rooms. "Yes, the battle was pretty awesome," he agreed. Clark was never terribly interested in the science of how things like zeppelins or quasars or atoms really worked--it wasn't that he didn't understand them, he just was more interested in the overall sweep of the story, the plot and the characters and their motivations, than the actual nuts and bolts of time travel.

Clark started rummaging in the boxes stacked on the floor, unearthing treasures: old sepia photographs of strangers, brooches made of ivory, satin slippers with holes in the soles, the detritus of generations. He pulled out a brown felt derby and balanced it on his head, grinning over at Bruce. "Oh," he said softly, reaching into the box. "Look at _this_." It was an ornate silver letter opener, shaped like a dagger with blue glass gems set in the hilt. "It's...the sword of the League of Valor." He brandished it at Bruce, his eyes bright under the derby. "Have at thee, varlet!" His hair had fallen slightly into his eyes, and Bruce suddenly heard again Tommy's voice: _Clark. The boy with the floppy hair?_

"You met Tommy today," he said without thinking, and Clark's gaze dropped.

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have been there during the party--"

"--I don't care. You're my friend," Bruce said. Clark was busy peering into the box again and didn't answer. Bruce picked up the letter opener, turning it around in his hands, watching the dull and dusty light of the attic kindle in the blue glass. "Do you ever think that we're...wasting our time?" he asked slowly.

"What do you mean?" Clark said, not looking up.

"I mean, someday we're going to have to grow up and put it all away. The Gray Ghost, Zorro, the League of Valor--"

Clark scrambled to his feet, cutting Bruce off. His eyes were blazing brighter than the blue rhinestones--not with anger, with something fiercer and more joyful. "Put valor away? Put heroism and bravery and justice _away_ , Bruce?" He smiled as if surprised at his own words, as if delighted by them. "You know better than that. Those aren't _kid's_ things, Bruce. They're the most important things of all." His rapt smile gentled, wrapping Bruce in something shared and special. " _You_ know that."

Bruce looked down at the little dagger. After a moment he held it up to Clark. "We can put this in the Secret Fortress. It can be the Sword of Oaths, and whenever we make a promise we have to put our hands on it and swear."

Clark reached out and rested his hands on top of the dagger as well. "Yes," he said, as simply as a vow.


	6. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Autumn brings foliage, blackberries--and an accident.

_September_

"Don't forget your jacket!" Martha Kent called to Clark as she heard the door open.

"Aw, _Ma_ ," complained Clark, but dutifully shrugged his jacket on.

Outside it was cool and crisp, a perfect late-September day. School was back in session, which meant the weekdays were a tedious slog, a sodden blur of gray classes that Clark didn't pay much attention to. But today was Saturday, and it was magic.

Bruce was waiting for him halfway down the path between their houses. "Let's go!" He was running before he finished the sentence. Clark pelted after him, to the fields south of the Manor, the grasses bleached to an autumn gold.

Bruce slowed down to a walk as they got to the field, letting Clark catch up. He paused to pry open a dry milkweed pod, releasing a cloud of silken white parachutes that lifted into the sky. Clark pulled open another pod, enjoying the contrast between the rough exterior and the secret softness within, a handful of pure white down that a breath puffed into floating life.

"You've got one caught in your hair," Bruce pointed out, plucking it free and blowing it into the air. Bruce had one in his own hair, a single white star against the darkness, but Clark decided he liked the look of it and didn't mention it.

The southern grove was a riot of scarlet maples and yellow beeches, tossing in the wind. They didn't often spend much time here, preferring the pine barrens and the creek to the north of the house, or the mystery of the rocky shoreline. Today, though, it was glorious, the scent of dry leaves a sweet mustiness in the air, touched with salt tang from the sea breeze. To Clark's delight, they found deer tracks in the soft earth--although his mother probably wouldn't be pleased to see them, he thought ruefully.

They picked blackberries and ate them until their faces were sticky and their tongues dyed purple, sweet tartness in handfuls of explosive flavor, their jackets catching on briars. Full of blackberries and warm with sunlight, Clark didn't even notice the time until Bruce looked at the lengthening shadows and looked a bit alarmed. "We better get back for supper," he said.

Clark grinned. "Race you back?"

Bruce was already running, kicking up dead leaves with each stride. Clark took off after him, whooping.

And then, in the middle of a step, Bruce disappeared.

For a moment, his absence was so sharp and sudden that Clark could process nothing but the empty space in front of him where his friend had been. Then the sound of splintering wood registered belatedly on his ears--crashing wood and a cry, abruptly cut off.

He skidded to a stop in the dry leaves, staring wildly at a dark hole in the ground, jagged bits of broken boards edging it. "Bruce?" He fell to his knees, his hands clutching at splinters. _"Bruce!_ "

The darkness swallowed up the name completely, consuming it, leaving Clark in the sunlight alone.

**: : :**

There were slimy rocks under him and his left arm was nothing but a blaze of pain. Bruce struggled to breathe past the searing agony in his arm and chest, struggled to see in the sudden darkness. He had fallen. The thought seemed sluggish, lagging far behind the pain racing along his nerve endings and turning the world to dark fire.

There was a swelling murmuring all around him, rising and falling. The sea, he told himself. He could hear the sea, echoing.

There was something under the sound of the sea.

Where was Clark? Disoriented and blinded, Bruce struggled to sit up. He croaked Clark's name once, a feeble sound.

As if the name were a summons, the sound under the waves sharpened, focused. Coming closer. He felt a wail building in him, clamped his chattering teeth over it.

And then it boiled over him: a chittering darkness, a living darkness, a cloud of eyes and claws that rushed over him, buffeting him with the promise of suffering.

He was alone in the terror-filled dark, and the wail forced itself out of him, beyond his control, the sound lost in the shrieking madness around him.

**: : :**

The darkness poured out of the hole like a living being, one with a thousand wings and eyes and a voice that was like Bruce's but lost and hopeless, screaming. "Bruce!" Clark put out his hands as if to stem the maelstrom somehow, as if Bruce would be in the midst of them, being carried aloft in a cloud of shadow. Softness brushed his fingers, touched his face; the swarm dissipated around him as the bats fled skyward. In the sudden shuddering silence in their wake, he leaned over the hole and called Bruce's name again, hearing his voice crack.

No voice answered him, only the sound of distant waves like sobs.

Clark stared wildly up at the Manor, so far away. "Bruce! I'm going to go get help, okay? Just...just hold on!" A moment longer he hesitated at the edge of the gaping hole. Then he turned and ran up the hill as fast as he could, leaving Bruce alone.

**: : :**

"I left him _alone_!"

Martha Kent wanted to hug her son, but he stood in the kitchen with his posture rigid and aching, mute fury locking his muscles.

"You had to get help, honey. He's okay, just a broken arm, and he would have had to wait there until someone found him if it weren't for your help." She reached out and patted his shoulder, but he just shook his head, his jaw tight with anguish.

"I didn't help him. I left him there. I should have found a way to get him out."

"You did everything you could."

His head snapped up and he glared at her. "He was afraid and all alone."

Martha wrapped her arms around herself for a moment. "Oh Clark," she murmured. "We're always alone at such moments. There's nothing you can do about it."

She hadn't expected him to understand her, and was surprised by the sudden sharpening of his vehement glare, blue eyes trembling on the verge of tears. "But it isn't _fair_ ," he cried as if it was wrenched from him. "It's not _fair!_ " He whirled and ran as if he couldn't bear to stand still a moment longer; she heard his bedroom door slam.

Martha Kent sat down at the kitchen table. Her coffee was cold, but she wrapped her hands around the mug as if it could give her some warmth, some comfort. "Jonathan," she whispered to the empty place in her heart. "Oh, Jonathan. I don't know how to keep him safe."

**: : :**

Bruce's face was very pale against the crisp white pillows; Martha Wayne watched him with a vague sense of worry. "He's fine, dear," said her husband, pushing back the hair on his son's forehead. "Aren't you fine, son?"

"Yes, Father," said Bruce. "I'm fine."

Martha worried at her lip. "Is your cast uncomfortable? Does it itch?"

Bruce didn't look down at his arm, at the hard white plaster. "It's okay."

Thomas shot his wife a reassuring smile. "You'll get all your friends to sign it," he said to Bruce. "And you'll have a great story to tell them."

Bruce closed his eyes.

An eloquent glance passed between Thomas and Martha. She didn't have to say anything, they both knew the old argument: Thomas had been in the middle of surgery when Bruce had been brought in; Leslie Thompkins had set his arm with brisk, kind efficiency, but Thomas hadn't seen him until he came home in the evening. Thomas was hopeless when Bruce was ill; somehow seeing his own child suffer reduced him to incoherent brusqueness. He looked apologetically at his wife, who narrowed her eyes with a hint of threat.

Thomas sighed and sat down on the bed next to Bruce. "I'm sorry I wasn't there, kiddo," he said. "I should have been there for you."

Bruce shook his head slightly. "It's okay," he said. "It's just--"

"Just what?" Thomas asked as Bruce fell silent.

Martha saw thoughts flicker beneath the deep blue of Bruce's eyes, a darkness beneath their clarity. "I don't know," he finally said, looking helpless, lost for words. "It's nothing." He frowned suddenly. "It's... _nothing_ ," he repeated slowly, more to himself than his parents, as if turning over the words in his mind.

"Well," said Thomas, pleased to hear his son was fine. "Tell you what, kiddo. When that cast comes off, we'll do something to celebrate. Just the three of us, a Wayne family night on the town."

Bruce looked up as if seizing on something to distract himself. "I'd like that," he said.

"What would you like?"

He paused as if slightly embarrassed. "Could we go see the new Zorro movie?"

Thomas chuckled. "Of course. Anything that'll make you happy, Bruce."

**: : :**

Martha Wayne came wide awake all at once, alert as if someone had screamed. The house was silent. She glanced at the clock: midnight.

A faint rattling noise broke the silence. Martha glanced over at Thomas, fast asleep. Then she slipped out of bed and to the window.

Outside, standing in the garden between two wings of the Manor, was a small figure: Martha recognized the Kent boy, his back to her, looking up at Bruce's window. He reached down to the pebbled walkway and tossed something upward; the rattling sound echoed between the wings again.

A figure appeared in the far window, his face a smudged white oval in the moonlight. Martha expected Clark to wave, but instead he simply stood very still, looking up. It was Bruce who lifted his uninjured hand in a slight wave. Then he reached out and rested it on the glass, looking down at the garden. There may have been a faint smile on his face; Martha couldn't see him clearly enough. At that, Clark did move his hand: not in a wave, he simply lifted it slightly, reaching out as if to touch the glass so far above him.

The two stood in the moonlight for a long time, unspeaking. Then the Kent boy nodded his shaggy head once and turned to slip away through the garden, back toward his house.

Bruce stayed at the window for a long time after that, looking down at where Clark had been. Eventually he melted back into the shadows of his room and was gone, leaving Martha alone with the moon and the garden.


	7. Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Terrible things happen, and Clark can only be there for Bruce in small ways, but small ways can matter deeply.

_November_

"...and I solemnly swear to live by honor and for glory, to protect the innocent and comfort the wronged, and to be in all things brave and true."

The two boys finished reciting the Code of the League of Valor and Clark put the Sword of Oaths in its place on the wall of the tree house again. Then he turned to Bruce, grinning. "Boy, what are we going to _do_ today?" he asked with relish.

Bruce stretched his arm, still feeling the ghost-cramping of the cast on it. Finally free. He hadn't been able to climb the rope ladder to the Secret Fortress for _six whole weeks_. Clark had insisted he come up and renew his oath right away. "Well, I can do _this_ now," he said, lunging forward to tickle Clark's ribs. Clark made a sound that was supposed to be challenging but was quite close to a squeal, dodging him.

"Watch it," Clark announced between giggles, "I'd hate to break your other arm."

"As if," Bruce snorted, and the two wrestled good-naturedly for a time until Clark started sneezing. Bruce lay next to him on the rough wooden floor, staring up at the pictures tacked on the ceiling, photos of Australia, Nepal, Japan, Sweden, the Amazon--all the places they were planning on traveling together someday--and just felt glad to be alive, his breath gusting faint white clouds into the chilly air.

"Actually," he said, "Can we go back to your place where it's warm and read for a while?"

"You bet," said Clark, scrambling to his feet.

"I am _so_ jealous you get to see _Zorro_ before I do!" Clark's voice drifted down to him as Bruce descended the rope ladder.

"We'll go together next weekend," Bruce said apologetically.

"It's not the same," Clark said as if he was trying not to sound petulant, scrambling down to the ground.

"I'm sorry," said Bruce for what must have been the twentieth time. And he _was_ sorry. But not _too_ sorry, because he didn't get to go to the movies with his father much, and a small part of him had been looking forward to this night for the last two months. "Look, I promise I won't go see the Gray Ghost movie at Christmas without you."

Clark swung to look at him. _"Promise?_ "

Bruce couldn't help laughing at the intensity in his eyes. "I promise! Do we need to go back up so I can swear it on--"

"--Nah." Clark elbowed him in the side, grinning. "I trust you. I promise I'll wait to see it with you, too."

"Cool."

For a moment Clark just looked at Bruce, smiling a bit goofily. Then he pivoted, his face flushed pink with the cold air, and broke into a run. "Race you!" he called back.

"No fair!" Bruce howled. "Cheat!"

Cozily installed in Clark's bedroom shortly after, fortified with hot chocolate and macaroons, the boys settled in. Bruce had been on a Hardy Boys kick recently; a neat stack of blue-bound books awaited him. Clark, on the other hand, was laboriously making his way through _Bulfinch's Mythology_ , stopping every couple of pages to check a word in a dictionary, brow furrowed in concentration. His lips moved slightly and his eyes were shining. "Seraphical," he whispered.

"What?" Bruce was only half-listening; Frank and Joe were about to unravel the Clue of the Broken Blade.

"Seraphical," Clark repeated, drawing the word out luxuriously. "It means 'like an angel." That's what Orlando looked like when he died. And then Charlemagne showed up after he was dead and 'threw himself, as if he had been a reckless youth, and embraced and kissed the body,'" he read, looking down at his finger on the page. "It's very sad."

"Hmm," Bruce said, more concerned with the mystery of the stolen sword.

From the Manor came the sound of Martha Wayne calling Bruce's name. Bruce glanced at their alarm clock and jumped up. "Oh, I have to get going! The movie starts soon."

Clark looked up from his Charlemagne, too lost in medieval France to be jealous of Bruce. "You'll tell me _everything?_ Pinkie promise?"

Bruce held out his hand, the little finger crooked, and they solemnly shook on it.

**: : :**

It wasn't much fun to keep reading without Bruce there, somehow, so Clark marked his book with a scarlet leaf from one of the Manor oaks and went into the kitchen.

His mother was poring over a stack of maps and diagrams on the kitchen table. "Oh, there you are," she said. She got up and ladled beef stew into two bowls; the scent of garlic and bay leaf made Clark's mouth water.

"What are you working on?" he asked as she cleared away the papers so they could eat.

"Mrs. Wayne's moon garden. I'm trying to decide between the Crystalline or Polar Star hybrid teas for the roses."

Clark gulped his stew and looked over at the photos. "I like the Polar Star ones. But they're both pretty," he said judiciously.

"I'm going to have all the paths of white stones, and Mrs. Wayne just ordered the statue she wants at the center. I think it's all coming together nicely," Martha said. She gave him a crooked smile. "Are you still mad at Bruce?"

Clark flushed a little to think that his sulking over the movie had been so obvious and took a big mouthful of stew to cover his discomfort. "He doesn't get to go out with his father much, so... I remember when Pa and I went to see _Flash Gordon_ together. It was cool." He smiled a little at his mother. "I'm lucky I have good memories of him," he said.

She ruffled his hair. "Yes, you are." She absently touched the falling-star pendant she always wore. "We both are."

There was a cold wind picking up as they cleared off the table; it rattled at the corners and windows of the little bungalow. "Looks like a storm tonight," Martha said.

Clark curled up in bed and read Bulfinch all evening, looking up at the Manor to see when the Waynes returned. He fell asleep with his book on his chest and the Manor windows still dark.

Martha slipped in and closed the curtains, and so he slept through the slow sweep of headlights returning across the darkness, making their reluctant way to the Manor, waking it from sleep to nightmare.

**: : :**

Clark slowly slipped his arms into the black suit, feeling it settle on his shoulders. He hadn't worn it for almost a year, not since... He blinked at the pale wrists the sleeves wouldn't cover.

"My, you've grown this last year," his mother tsked, tugging at the suit to make it fit right. She glanced in the mirror and sighed, adjusting her own hat with its bit of black veil.

"I don't know what to do," Clark whispered, and she bent down to hug him.

"Just be there for Bruce, dear. After all, you know a little of what he's going through. You know how he's feeling."

"Not really," Clark said, looking at the stiff, awkward boy in the mirror, feeling warm arms around him. He still had his mother, after all. Bruce was all alone. And not just that. Clark had heard what happened from the other servants' gossip and from the newspapers: the dark alley, the gunshots, the blood. "The poor boy's suit was all splattered with it," Antonia had said with relish to the maids as Clark made himself small in a corner of the kitchen, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bruce somewhere. "They bled to death right there in front of him and he sat in the dark, all covered with their blood. My friend Bobby--he's on the force, he was there--said he wasn't even crying when they came, just a little broken doll in the street with dead eyes and blood in his hair--" Alfred Pennyworth entered the kitchen then and _looked_ at her, and she had fallen into sullen silence, the maids slipping away like mist before a wrathful sun.

No, Clark wasn't sure he understood how Bruce was feeling at all.

**: : :**

The funeral was quiet and solemn and rather impersonal. Winifred Elliott sobbed loudly into a lace handkerchief, but everyone else seemed in shock, subdued. Tommy Elliott sat next to his mother, his gaze diamond-sharp toward the front of the church and the two black coffins covered with white lilies. Clark couldn't seem to read his expression, but there was something painful and yearning about it.

Clark thought about his Pa and believed he understood how Tommy was feeling.

Clark could see the back of Bruce's head five pews ahead of him, the closest he'd gotten to Bruce since that night. Bruce stood up to sing the hymns _(Time, like an ever rolling stream / Bears all its sons away / They fly, forgotten, as a dream / Dies at the opening day...)_ and sat down when they were done, and looked straight ahead the whole time.

The long, slow procession to the cemetery dragged by. Clark and his mother rode with Antonia and her husband. A raindrop spattered the windshield, then another. Soon a steady pouring rain set in, drowning all the world outside in darkness.

At the gravesite, Clark watched Bruce as earth was shoveled onto the coffins, dirt and rain showering down. Alfred Pennyworth held a black umbrella over Bruce's head, his own face bleak.

There was an endless receiving line. When he finally reached Bruce, Clark stood for a moment, irresolute. Then he stuck out his hand. Bruce took it mechanically, looking at Clark and then through him. "I'm sorry," said Clark. "Let me know if I can help."

For a moment, Bruce's eyes focused on Clark's face. For just a moment, some strong emotion tore across his face like a gust of wind across water. "Thanks," he said, and his hand tightened on Clark's.

And then Clark had to move on, had to listen to Antonia's gossip fill the car all the way home.

He was sitting in bed later that night, listening to the wind howl and the rain drum on the roof, when he looked out the window and nearly dropped his book. Off in the distance, as if underwater, a light was glimmering, coming from the Secret Fortress. It blinked out his name in Morse code, then paused and started again.

Clark was running toward the treehouse before the final _dash dot dash_ appeared again, his slippers soaked already, shivering in the cold rain.

He clambered up the rope ladder to find Bruce sitting with the flashlight in his hands, waiting. The wind was making the whole tree tremble, the boards of the Fortress creaking, branches scratching up against the sides like skeletal fingers. There was a sudden flash of lightning, far off.

"I need you to witness an oath," Bruce said.

The thunder arrived as he finished speaking, a low growl muttering after his words.

"Sure," Clark stammered. "Let me...." He grabbed the little silver blade from its hanger on the wall. Holding it between them by the hilt, he started: "Do you solemnly swear on the Sword of Oaths--"

"--It's not a sword," Bruce said harshly. He reached out and wrapped his hand around the blade. "It's just a letter opener. It's not real. None of that stuff is real. But this oath is. I'm going to _make_ it real." His hand tightened on the blade until the skin was white across the knuckles; his eyes were like dark holes, boring into Clark. "And I swear--I swear on my _life_ that I'm going to--" He stopped suddenly and blinked, as if he wasn't sure how to continue. "I'm going to-- _stop bad things from happening,_ " he finally said, with a strange, heavy emphasis on each word, as if they meant something to him alone. His face twisted. "There's no valor. And there's no glory. But there are bad things in the world. And someday, somehow, I'm going to stop them."

"Okay," Clark whispered. Bruce seemed beyond comfort, beyond solace, beyond humanity itself. In that moment, Clark gave him the only thing he could: his assent, if not his understanding. "Okay."

Bruce nodded, once. There was another flash of lightning, much closer this time, then a sharp bang of thunder that made Clark jump. Bruce didn't even seem to notice it; he released the letter opener and sighed as if suddenly exhausted. Clark wanted to catch up his hand and check to make sure he wasn't injured, but Bruce was already moving toward the rope ladder. He disappeared into the storming night, and Clark wasn't sure if he heard or only imagined a last "thank you" drift back under the sound of the rain.

Clark watched the small figure trudge through the sheets of rain back toward the Manor, shoulders lowered into the wind, setting himself against the storm.


	8. Frost and Splinters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce deals with the aftermath of his parents' deaths, perhaps as well as he can.  From Clark's point of view, that isn't very well.

_December_

Bruce was a ghost in his own house. He wandered aimlessly through the empty rooms, his footsteps swallowed up by silence. Most of the rooms were closed off, unnecessary, the furniture under slipcovers, vague white shapes looming where once there were chairs and sofas.

He had sworn an oath. Not to honor or to courage--words whose emptiness had been made all too clear when he simply stood there and watched his parents fall--but to something he couldn't put into words, something dark and demanding and consuming. He had sworn an oath. He didn't know how to fulfill it.

Bruce walked through the silent places his parents used to walk and could not comprehend why he was alive and they were dead.

Sometimes he wasn't sure which he was. He would wake in the morning with the cold winter sunlight on his face and find no reason to be alive. Then he would remember his oath, and he would pull himself out of bed and go to school and come home and roam the empty corridors as if he were looking for something.

He was a ghost, caught halfway between life and death, and he could not bear it. He had to be something more than this.

He began to make plans.

**: : :**

Antonia's tearstained face looked back from the car window as she and her husband drove away. Clark and his mother waved goodbye until the car was out of sight, their breath puffing clouds into the winter air. The Manor loomed behind them, its windows dark and empty as a skull's eye sockets. Clark wondered if Bruce was in the attic, watching out the tiny windows as one of the last servants of Wayne Manor left. He hadn't seen Bruce since that night of wind and thunder.

His mother wrapped her gloved fingers around his mitten and they started to walk back to the bungalow. Martha's face was distant, lost in thought; Clark knew she'd been going through the newspaper's help wanted ads for weeks now, looking for a new position. There were circles under her eyes that Clark hadn't seen there for almost a year. He squeezed her hand and she smiled down at him slightly.

Back in the tiny kitchen, she stirred a pot of chicken soup slowly, her mind clearly not on the task. Stacked up against the wall were cardboard tubes filled with plans and layouts for the gardens; this morning Clark had watched her roll up the plans for Martha Wayne's moon garden and slip them into tubes, capping them with a sense of finality and wiping at her eyes.

A quiet, formal rap on the door made Martha start and almost drop her spoon. Clark didn't jump to answer it: Bruce would never knock so politely, after all. "Mr. Pennyworth," he heard his mother say from the front hall. "Do come in." Her voice was resolute and colorless; she knew what he had come here to say.

Alfred Pennyworth stood in the kitchen in his neat black suit, straight and proper and grave. He looked as though he might bow to Clark's mother in her checked apron with her cheeks flushed from the stove. "Mrs. Kent," he said. "Master Clark. I have come to inform you that--"

"--We understand, Mr. Pennyworth," said Martha. "I've been looking into travel plans back to Smallville. I have a variety of options--"

Alfred shook his head, pursing his lips. "You misunderstand me, Mrs. Kent. After carefully perusing the household expenses, I have come to the conclusion that it would be wise to keep a gardener on staff. It would not do to let the grounds fall into disrepair, after all. I'm afraid--" He looked apologetic, "--Of course, we will be much more limited in the kind of help we can hire, but I believe I will be able to assist, and when Clark gets older--" He cast a quick look at Clark, who jumped to his feet.

"I can help! I'm already old enough to help, Ma!"

Martha twisted her apron in her hands, looking close to tears again--tears of relief this time. "Oh, Mr. Pennyworth," she said, her breath catching in close to a sob, "It would be very kind of you--so very kind indeed--"

Alfred looked extremely uncomfortable at her gratitude, as if he were afraid Martha might try to hug him. "Nonsense, Mrs. Kent," he said. "You are not here on charity. You are here because you are an excellent gardener. Mrs. Wayne always spoke so very highly of you, and with reason." He nodded, looking satisfied. "You and Master Clark are welcome here at Wayne Manor as long as you wish to hold your position." Then the butler retreated from the bungalow, clearly relieved at being done with this messy emotional business.

As the door closed behind him, Martha wiped tears from her eyes. "Oh, thank heavens," she breathed, touching her falling-star pendant. She scooped Clark into a quick hug. "You don't mind extra work?"

Clark hugged her back fiercely. "You know I don't! I'll be here for you as long as you need me." And maybe soon, he thought, maybe soon Bruce would emerge from his terrible isolation and it would be like old times. It would feel like home, if that happened.

**: : :**

Years later, sitting in a stuffy college classroom listening to a lecture on human psychology, Clark will suddenly sit up straighter and start taking copious notes as the professor starts talking about post-traumatic stress disorder. He will go back to his dormitory carrying a stack of books from the library on trauma and clinical depression, reading them late into the night, nodding and exclaiming softly to himself.

But that is years in the future.

**: : :**

Clark woke to hear hammering noises from the forest, the sound of splintering wood. He pulled on his coat and sneakers and followed the sound over brown grass rimed with frost, the air sharp and cold with the promise of snow. He stopped short as he saw the source of the sounds, then broke into a run.

Alfred Pennyworth looked at Clark down from the big beech where he was tearing the last floorboards of the treehouse up. His breath steamed in the cold as he panted from exertion. "Master Clark," he said. "What's the matter?"

The Secret Fortress was in ruins, piles of shattered wood and debris on the ground. There were a few cardboard boxes there as well; Clark spotted some comic books peeking from them, a pillow. "What are you doing?" Clark asked, and his own voice seemed distant and frozen as if by the cold.

"Master Bruce told me to take the treehouse down," Mr. Pennyworth said. "Since he'll be attending Milton Academy from today and won't be home often--" He broke off. "He didn't tell you, did he?" His breath hid his eyes. "He's enrolled in Milton Academy, in Massachusetts. He'll be boarding there."

"When...when will he come home?" Alfred's stricken face told him all he needed to know.

"All of your books and things are in that box there," Alfred said.

Clark went through that box, then through the other boxes, then through the broken boards, with increasing desperation. "Watch you don't get a splinter there, Master Clark," Alfred called down.

"Where's the Sword of Oaths?"

"The what?"

"The Sword of Oaths!" Clark frantically rummaged through the wreckage. "It's a--a--" Alfred was looking down at him, uncomprehending. "It's just a letter opener," Clark finished softly.

"Rafael has already taken away some of the boards to dispose of them. I hope he didn't accidentally--" Clark wasn't listening to him, he was pawing through the boxes and boards again, to no avail. The little silver blade was gone.

Clark heard a car engine start in front of the Manor.

Tossing down a crate, he started to run toward the sound, the impact of his feet on the cold, hard ground driving the breath from his body until it sounded like he was sobbing. He rounded the corner of the Manor to see the taxi driver closing the trunk and getting into the driver's side. In the back seat Clark could see a small, dark figure.

The car began to move down the driveway.

Dragging icy air into his lungs, Clark screamed after the car: " _I hate you, Bruce Wayne! I hate you!_ " He started to run after the car, his throat raw and aching as it pulled away, further away at every moment. "I hope I never see you again!" He hurled the lies like a handful of stones after the car, saw the shoulders of the small figure hunch as though from a blow.

" _I hate you, Bruce Wayne!"_  



End file.
